Shattered Illusion
by Dagorhir
Summary: Dying was rarely pleasant. Coming back from the dead only to find himself somewhere in the past in an alternate timeline was a fate far worse. Capturing Tom Riddle's attention? Hadrian hated his life.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note**

For those who are reading this, I thank you for taking an interest in 'Shattered Illusion.'

Many of you may have already read this, and have noticed there are some changes. Actually, quite a few. It was rather confusing, and, after rereading the story, and my original plans for this story, I realized I needed to..._revise _the current chapters to match the thought process building inside of my mind. So I did just that, and what you shall read is more along the lines of what I had originally planned. 'Shattered Illusion' bears some similarities with other stories, what with the _"Boy-Who-Lives travels into past, develops feelings (platonic or otherwise,) and alters events"_ storyline we have all seen, and read, in the FanFiction universe.

I'll be honest. I like these sort of stories myself, but there has always been one small think which drew my ire. This little issue is named 'Time Paradox.'

A Time Traveler _cannot _interact, to a large degree, with the past due to the very fact _their very being there _contradicts the truth of reality. By being there, in the past, a Time Traveler exists in two places at once. Never have I seen a consequence to this. Many of the stories I have read have a 'I won't _kill _Riddle...so nothing will happen...' kind of mood going on, and, sadly, that isn't the way it works. A still pond is the past. Drop a rock, and ripples form. Each ripple is a change.

The "Past Is In Stone" is quite literal, and, to interact with the past, I cam up with a different way of approaching it.

So: Read, Enjoy, and _Review!_

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He had never said he was overly bright. He was more reckless than anything else, which often resulted in some uncomfortable situations.

Hadrian did, and said, things without much thought. It often benefited him, and luck tended to show him its favor than its hate, but, sometimes, _sometimes, _he was confronted with...unsavory consequences he couldn't predict. Not that he would ever admit that, he mused to himself. As he dunked under a reaching arm, icy fingers grazing the back of his neck, he knew these consequences would happen at some point or another. Some of the time, it was instant. Other times, it came at a later date when his defenses were down, and he was expecting anything _but _what always ended up happening.

His current predicament was such an example.

He was still trying to figure out why a group of dementors were in Little Whinging. And he was still trying to figure out how his _cousin _could outrun one of them.

The entire situation baffled him.

"Not _that way, _you daft moron!" Despite his cousin's speed, his stupidity would seemingly be his undoing. Hadrian chucked the rock he was holding at the dementor closing in on him, and he sprinted past, shivering from the cold, to his cousin who was screaming, shrilly, at the dementor grasping his chin.

_Now, why in the world would a dementor want to kiss that sad excuse for a living being?_

He caught his cousin around the arm, and yanked him down and away from the black-robbed figure. The blubbery male wailed, stumbling, as Hadrian pulled him deeper into the park and away from the ghostly ghouls hell-bent with the sole obsession of claiming their souls.

A fat hand clenched his, thick fingers biting into pale flesh, and the sensation of cold lessened for a moment before pursuing them. Hadrian cursed, and, fumbling for his wand, felt a cold hand latch onto his shoulder. Long, pale fingers dragged him backward, away from Dudley, and, as Hadrian whipped around, wand coming up, an equally cold hand circled his wrist. Bony fingers caress the inside of his wrist, and pressed, lightly, against the thundering pulse lurking under the skin.

Dudley kept running, the traitor.

It was as if a wall of icy water washed over his skin as the dementor's magic surged from his wrist and up his arm. He caught sight of silvery robes, almost like the color of starlight, whirling around him. Green irises blinked, and, as the dementor tugged him closer, the hand encasing his squeezing, he realized those robes darkened to a deep, ash grey.

The hand wrapped around his tightened, the pressure building, until his fingers released the warm and worn wooden wand from its grasp. Hadrian winced, shivering, and, tugging at his captured limb, lost his footing as the dementor swayed to the side. Shivering, the cold washing through his body, Hadrian looked up to find himself face-to-mask with a dementor.

He blinked, body heavy, in sharp confusion at the pale white barrier guarding the dementor's mouth. It took an additional minute to realize the _other _dementors, clad in their traditional _black _robes, were circling them. Not closing in, mouths agape to steal his soul, but actively c_ircling _them with some sort of unified precession_._

_What the hell? _

Hadrian tugged at his wrist, hoping, but the cold, skeletal fingers tightened their grip. The raven-haired boy winced, and lashed out with his other hand, yelping when a black-clothed hand caught his airborne limb from behind. The icy sensation stalking these shadowy creatures increased. He shuddered at the notion a dementor pressing against his back, aiding the unusually dressed dementor, garbed in grey, in its pursuits. Hadrian had not sensed its movements, much to his complete dismay. Nor had he heard it.

The rattling breathing was absent. The cold was all that remained.

Dementors swept a circle around them, silent. Shadows obscured the pale milkiness of their faces, and the clouds slowly rolled across the sky. The moon, once hidden, slowly crept out of hiding in its glorious, brilliant crimson hue. It hovered directly over them, at its zenith in the sky, and Hadrian, head craned back to stare at its unusual closeness in wonder, felt a cold finger travel up his neck, caressing his skin with the touch of a _lover,_ to his chin. His skin crawled, rising at the soft touch, and vibrant green eyes swung back to the pale dementor with renewed wariness. He idly tried to gather _why _his gaze had shifted to the moon, to the luminous object looking upon them, and felt an itch to turn his gaze back to it.

A stray breeze danced across the park, leaves dancing in its embrace.

The dementor closed in, silvery-grey robes encasing him as that bone-white mask filled his vision.

The others, still circling, seemed to close in as loud cracks, small explosions of magic, filled the air, and within seconds lights raced across the ground. Hadrian felt the dementor, the grey one, pull him into its embrace as the blinding purity of countless patronusus closed in. A large one, its shape impossible to tell through the haze, came to an abrupt halt, without warning, as if it connected with some kind of barrier.

Hadrian grasped the grey dementor's shoulder, trembling, as he watched the patronus slam, headfirst, into the force field. The rest of the body followed, back legs swinging up, and the animal's back connected with the wall. The wall did not falter, the shadow surface shifting as the patronus shattered, dispelled, seconds after.

Shocked exclamations filled the air as the other patronusus raced across the ground. The black-clad dementors, sweeping out of the range of those white spirits, did not flee. They evaded. They dodged. They circled. As Hadrian slumped, head lulling to rest against the grey-clad dementor's chest, he realized this went against everything he had ever thought possible.

Dementors were supposed to _run _from a patronus. The light, the purity, of the spell was supposed to negate the darkness a dementor carried. As a hand cradled the back of his head, a strong arm holding him about the middle, Hadrian realized these dementors, or, more accurately, the one cradling him close, were nothing like the ones he had encountered a year ago. These were different, far more intelligent, and moving with a shared understanding.

Not one spell was getting past them, and patronusus were falling, one after another, with a rapid precession that should have been impossible.

Over the chaos, a voice screamed.

At first he thought it could possibly be his mother's voice, the shock and trauma finally getting to him. Yet, as he felt himself getting lowered, he saw no flashing green lights in his mind's eye. He did not hear the begging, sobbing voice of a woman he had only known for the first year of his life.

This voice, it was aged. It was male.

As he nestled into the dementor's grasp, he realized it was familiar.

_"Hadrian!" _He blinked, and his vision swam. He saw red hair and worried eyes. It shimmered, like a mirage, over the image of an elderly man with silver hair and a long, white beard. Albus? He was certain the man was his Headmaster, but, as he caught sight of others darting in and out of the fog, of spells being fired as another group arrived, he couldn't quite understand what was going on.

There were…people. They wore robes, similar to the dementors, but different.

_They're wizards and witches_, his mind supplied. A small, helpful voice spoke in the back of his thoughts. The aged Headmaster was calling to him, grandfatherly voice carrying over the chaos, and Hadrian mused that a spell must be carrying it. He didn't think it would be possible for it to carry otherwise, and, as he felt the damp grass under his back, a sense of confusion filled him.

_Why am I lying down? _

The question circled as the silvery-grey dementor, flanked by those adorned in black, raked a cold, skeletal hand through his hair. It gently guided his head backwards, exposing his throat, as dulled, green eyes blinked sleepily at the red moon. A cold numbness seeped into his bones, and Hadrian found he could not will himself to move. His fingers, numb from the icy coldness of a darker magic, and exhaustion, went lax. They refused to move.

"Damn you, _Potter!" _Eyes half-mast, Hadrian blinked. Was that…Snape? He turned his head, squinting blearily into the chaos of black-robed people and Dumbledore's men, as someone yelled,_ "_Fight them!"

_Fight who?_

A hand guided his face back towards the sky, towards the moon, and he felt a spark of pain flare in his forehead, from the scar there, as magic continued to wage war. Darker spells crashed into the barrier. He could hear the sharp, angered hisses of the creatures around him. He sensed a sort of urgency as a spell flew over the heads of the dementors, but they refused to scatter as the glowing white forms of the patronusus slammed into them.

Whatever barrier keeping them back was gone, but Hadrian knew it the shield was no longer needed. His gaze focused on the dementor leaning over him, and the pale hand pulling the mask free. The silvery-grey dementor's face, and its features, were startlingly human, sans the pointed ears the silvery-grey hair falling on either side of its face. Yet it was iced. Like a person who died long ago, and their body frozen, preserved, in eternally iced waters. The eyes, the coldest of blues, stared into his without hesitation.

_I'm going to die._ It was a rather obvious outcome given he had done whatever he could to save a dimwitted _Dursley_. Not that his cousin was fully to blame. No, not at all. Hadrian had accepted the fact, regardless of his circumstances, bad luck followed him. Yet he could not get his mind around the bad karma of getting laid upon the grass like a virgin sacrifice to be devoured by a dementor. And, as it leaned in, cold breath fanning across him mouth, he realized that, in all the possible ways to die, this was one of the ways he couldn't complain about.

He wasn't being tortured.

He didn't have to watch everyone die around him.

He was numb, cold numb, his breathing slow and steady. A cold, skeletal hand caressed his cheek as people continued to yell, and the pain in his forehead spiked as Riddle's panic seeped into his senses. A cold hand brushed over the Curse Scar, covering it, and the pain, and the emotions, of the Dark Lord vanished as that cold mouth descended upon his.

He had never thought his first kiss would be claimed Death. Dementor's were death. Right? His fingers curled lightly in the grasp, and stilled as a cold hand interlaced with his as an icy mist seeped out of the dementor and slid down his throat. It spread into his lunges as it traveled to his chest, and it followed the maze of veins, muscle, and bone throughout his body. He felt something in him shift, flowing, warm, through his body. It followed the path the mist came through, traveling _up _through those muscles, veins, and bone into his chest, lunges, and throat.

As his body splintered, like a web of silk woven by spiders, he could hear people screaming in the backdrop. A spell, pure and radiance in its white brilliance, rushed forward. The dementor slipped its mask into place, gliding into the air and away from the spell, and the others, as if pulled by some kind invisible string, followed.

Someone lifted his shoulders and head, black cloth curling around him as a familiar, dark magic surged into his body. Red eyes peered down at him, but he felt nothing of the emotions of the Dark Lord as a wizened face with wild white hair and twinkling blue eyes came into view, the old wizard collapsing by Riddle's side. Blue eyes we wet, and left trails upon tanned, aged skin.

A sturdy, calloused hand pressed against his pulse, and he saw dark, obsidian eyes staring down at him in shock.

"Damn you, Potter." Snape's voice was rough, as if he was having trouble speaking. Hadrian could not quite understand why his professor looked like someone had stabbed him. The man hated him, after all, so this should not make his words catch or his eyes to tear up. "You can't die after you _deflected _the_ Killing Curse!"_

As they spoke, darkness crept closer.

A woman with pale blond hair was waving her wand over his body, movements frantic, as that darkness inched along his body, encasing him in an odd sort of warmth, and, as it swallowed him whole, he felt his skin crack. Like webs of icy blue light, he felt his flesh splinter, but the pain he expected was absent. In the backdrop, he saw a man staring down at him, red eyes hard and unwavering, and Hadrian knew Tom had come to say goodbye in his own twisted way.

The woman…she was Draco's mother, was she not? Yes, yes she was. Draco had the same sharp features she bore, and the same expressive eyes. He felt a hand grasp his, a girl's voice breaking, and he saw curly brown hair and honey-colored eyes. He felt his lips curl into a smile as the one holding him tightened their grip. Hermione.

So…everyone was here.

As his body shattered into a sea of glimmering shards, each alive with magic and icy light, he saw, far above, hovering in a halo of crimson light, a dementor clad in silvery-grey cloth. It watched, an apparition so arcane it brought tears to his eyes, as Hadrian Potter's body scattered in the wind, cast to the heavens and into its outstretched hand. And, like the dementors dancing in the wind around it, he soared into the sky, free, for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note**

After this chapter, we won't have the "Author's Note" for a few reasons. It gets in the way. For those who have gotten an alert about this, you'll realize there's only the first chapter (which I recommend you reread), and this one. These last few months, I've been absent, and, when I went back to this story, things were so far off from what I was aiming for...well, it has to be rewritten. I also noticed how _confusing _it was, and, while this is to be expected for the first few chapters, very few things were cleared up. So I restarted, and the two chapters here are the beginning. And, no, don't worry. Much of what happened earlier will come up again, but not so fast and it won't be so confusing this time around. So I advise everyone go back, reread chapter one (a few things change), and come back to this chapter.

Read, Enjoy, and _Review!_

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The storm howled, and the moon, a deep crimson, stared upon the burning temple.

Hadrian was uncertain of what was happening, but he knew the darkness was lifting...and the ground was getting closer and closer by the second. He slammed through a tree, wood shattering around him, and hit the ground, flipping over himself, and skidded to a halt next to a smoldering, stone building. It was small. One floor. A house, perhaps. As he rose to his knees, shuddering and feeling more than a little sick to his stomach, he swept his gaze over his surroundings. This place, wherever _this _was, was not a place he knew. Nor was it a place he had ever seen. Which was, admittedly, more than a little terrifying.

Spells flew, too many to count. Hadrian staggered between the people, disorientated, as people he had never seen fled. Screams rang throughout the world, sharp and loud and filled with fear, but he was not certain _where _this was. Hadn't he just _died? _He was rather certain he had. As he turned, backing into the stone building, he swore if _this _was the afterlife, he'd hunt down Death, and give him a piece of his mind. Or the grey dementor. Either would do, at this point.

Because, seriously, this was so _not _cool.

A bell tolled in the distance, dark and ominous, as Hadrian clutched his side. His nerves were screaming, overstimulated, and, as he dunked in the shadows, one arm covering his head, he tried to think. What did he know, right now, other than the fact he _wasn't _dead and, from what he could see, a war was waging on the other side of the stone wall. Back pressing to heated stones, he frowned. He was injured. He could feel blood seeping between his fingers. He could see well enough even though he was certain his glasses _weren't _on his face. After carefully running a hand over his features, in search for said glasses, he realized the assumption was correct. He could see without his glasses.

Which was wrong, because he was as good as _blind _without those things. Things were a tad blurry, yes, but he could make out the shapes in the room around him. A few doorways, open rooms, tables, a counter in the corner, and what looked like a bed against the far wall. Blurry, but useable, this sight of his. While he wasn't the brightest of people, something he could readily agree with, he knew he was, by no means, _stupid_. Fuck. He was smart, when he decided it suited him, but showing up Hermione made him feel bad. It also helped Ron, given it gave him some confidence his own brothers wouldn't allow him.

He was "academically smarter than the Boy-Who-Lived." He really wasn't, but the boost it gave the redhead was worth it.

Now he wished he paid a _little _more attention in History. While Binns droned on about one subject, their textbooks offered quite a lot of useful information. History had always bored him, but, as he scrambled across the floor, staying low encase someone looked through the widow, he knew he should have taken a bit more of the information to heart. It might have given him a clue as to where _this _place was. A temple was burning, after all. Current history would mention something along these lines, right?

So what did he know? He could see, somewhat, he was injured, and he wasn't dead. A war was going on. He had no wand, from what he could tell, and there were people outside firing the Killing Curse like a muggle with a machine-gun and trigger-happy finger. Not an ideal location to land in, dead or not. Damned dementor, and its bloody kiss of death. Or new life. Whatever the hell that had been. And the bastard had _taken _his first kiss. Without any remorse! Cho Chang didn't count. She had been in love with Cedric, so it _really _didn't count. Did that account actually _count _as far as kissing went?

_Fuck, stop thinking randomly. _He nodded to himself, and, as he crawled across the ground, he looked about for some sort of weapon which could help him. The only thing he saw was a knife. And that would do, he decided, as a man in black-and-purple robes kicked open the door to the small house. Grasping the handle in his hand, curling black hair sticking to his skin, Hadrian crouched, one palm to the ground, with more confidence than he felt. The wizard across from him laughed.

"So 've savage thinks he 'aves a chance?" The man shook his head, and stepped closer. Hadrian kept his grip loose, eyes on the man, as the wizard said, "I thought it vould have taken more time to vind you. Be good, my _Jarl, _and I'll make 'vis quick."

Hadrian twisted out of the way of the spell, and threw the knife.

It was almost like someone else was guiding his moments, and, as he twisted to the side, he saw the blade embed itself into the wizard's eye. The man dropped to the ground as someone else murmured, _"_And here I thought this would have been more trying. I suppose your lack of understanding of your own heritage will work in my benefit."

Hadrian whipped around, and found himself facing a ghost. Well, he thought the teen across from him was a ghost, but he wasn't as grey looking as the ones he had met in Hogwarts. This teen, thin and lanky, was colorful. Waving black hair, grey eyes, and unusually tan skin. And, as Hadrian stood across from him, he felt a sense of unease curled through him. They were...the same height. Yet the teenager across from him was _short, _like shorter than Hadrian knew himself to be...

"You haven't even figured it out?" The teen across form him snorted. "Lovely. And here I had hoped you would actually be _useful _to me."

"Who the fuck are you?" Hadrian demanded, and the spirit barked out a laugh. Grey eyes met green, and the teen bowed low, grey eyes mocking him, as the spirit murmured, "Figure it out for yourself, _hero."_

Then the teen faded away, and the ceiling above him groaned. Hadrian's gaze snapped to the ceiling, and he saw the stones cracking. He swore, shot across the small room, and threw himself out the doorway seconds before the building crumbled to the ground. He landed on his back, more confused than ever, as pieces of the wizards words came back. Or, more importantly, the title he had thrown at Hadrian seconds before he was...killed. By Hadrian himself, nonetheless. Jarl, the man had sad. _My _Jarl. As he made his way through the street, dunking under reaching arms once again, he hissed to himself, _"What the hell is a Jarl?'_

He felt magic in the air, felt it thrumming under his skin, and, as he staggered, slumped into a wall, he realized this place, wherever it was, was _nowhere _near Little Whinging or Hogwarts. So where _was _here? England? Was it somewhere else? More importantly, why the _fuck _did a grey dementor teleport him elsewhere and make everyone think he was _dead? _It felt as if the world was trying to crush him into nothingness, and his every step was difficult. It was almost like he had never walked before. Or he was in a body other than his own.

He slowed, his mind slowly putting the small, nudging nuisances sounding off in the back of his mind together.

"Eloise!"

A hand grabbed his arm, and, as he whirled around, he came face-to-face with a person he did not know. Yet he felt like he _did _know them, and, as the person dragged him towards the burning temple, speaking a mile a minute in another language, the entire situation got even more confusing. Who was Eloise? Why did this person grab him, of all people? Was it possible Eloise was the _ghost _he had just talked to? But...that would be impossible. Right?

"We must be quick, Eloise."

Shit. They were calling him Eloise. He blinked, astonished, as this person dragged him through stone doors into a wide, circular chamber with a rather complex-looking rune on the floor. It was glowing, and there were several people already standing in the middle. An elderly woman deflated, relief shining in her eyes, as the man who had grabbed him nudged him into the woman's waiting arms. Shit. This really was happening. He was...he was in the body of somebody _else_. Not his own. The smaller height. The odd way the body felt as he moved. The curling, thick wavy hair. They weren't _his!_

The woman pulled him closer, and murmured the name 'Eloise' several times, in another language, and, as he trembled, body weak, he felt _something _inside of him stir. Not the icy mist thing the dementor had breathed into him, but something sentient, and with a rather powerful _dislike _for him in general. As the woman grabbed his hand, pieces of information began to click together. Was he being haunted? Or stalked by a spirit?

A ritual. This was a _ritual, _and he was at the heart of it.

Already the magic was surging through his body, and it felt like he was being torn apart from within, as a soft, melodies voice chuckled in the back of his mind. What was going on? As his mouth opened, a demand of some kind on the tip of his tongue, the world slammed shut around him, and then he was spiraling out of control through a vacuum of magic.

The world around him, the panic, was familiar. Hadn't be just been in the middle of a chaotic event? A stabbing pain radiated through him, as if something tried to dislodge his insides and failed to do so. He found himself unable to voice the pain as the sensation of being pulled through a straw swallowed him. He could hear someone yelling out in outrage as they vanished, and Hadrian, unable to focus, or even stand on his own, hit the ground hard.

Damp grass cushioned his fall, but it did not keep him from rolling. He heard others screaming in shock, and a hoof slammed into the grown next to his head. The near death experience had Hadrian scrambling away as the hippogriff, rearing on its hind legs, came crashing down, hooves first, with an angry screech. Behind the angry creature, perched upon a hill, was the towering form of Hogwarts. The sight of it had his arms crumbling under him in disbelief, and the hippogriff, closing in, slowed with a curious tilt of its head.

It snapped at the professor nearing them, snorting with warning, as someone else carefully helped him to his feet. As he sagged into the warmth, a welcome relief from the cold and chaos and confusion, he watched the hippogriff stamp its hoof on the ground in obvious dislike for the stranger's actions. As he turned , slowly and with obvious care, he was surprised to come face-to-face with a very familiar teenager with blue-violet eyes_. Eyes _he knew from personal experience, had seen in a diary in his second year, but older.

Darker.

Smarter.

Crueler.

Hadrian felt like time was slowing, and, given how _Tom Marvolo Riddle _was holding him, the sentiment was well earned. It didn't slow in the way it did when someone stared in their lover's eyes. It slowed with the realization he was gazing into the eyes of a predator, and _he _was the prey. A mouse embracing a feline. A rabbit cuddling up to a wolf. Sweet Merlin, this was real, wasn't it? He was in _Riddle's _arms, the taller male's arm wound around his midsection, and an entire class of students were staring at them with surprise.

And jealously, if a few looks were accurately described.

And Hadrian, more than a little shocked, did the only thing which came naturally to him.

He punched Riddle in the face, flipped the heavier male over his shoulder, and made a made dash up the hill towards Hogwarts.


	3. Chapter 3

There were many things Tom praised himself of. His ability to predict what those around him would do was one of them.

He had not, however, expected this. Sprawled across the ground, his nose bloodied, he blinked up at the sky and the hippogriff, pursuing the wild-haired boy fleeing towards the castle, was soon gone. He cared not for the beast, but, as he sat up, he was not sure if his amusement came from the fact the boy, small in height, went from awed to a wildcat ready to scratch out his eyes. For someone so_ tiny, _the boy was far stronger than his figure implied.

"Tom," Lestrange and Black were at his side in seconds, both hauling him to his feet, and Abraxas, pale eyebrow arched, stood in front of him with Ezra at his side. He remained still as Prince aimed his wand at his nose, and healed it. Ezra lowered the wand after, dark eyes blinking slowly, as Tom turned to eye the castle the boy had vanished into. He was rather surprised to see a small group of people giving chase, a collective of 'Eloise' being shouted at the retreating figure. He frowned, and, as his gaze shifted towards his small group of friends, Abraxas said, "Well, that was the last thing I expected."

"Agreed." Tom turned towards the professor, grey-violent eyes betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

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He was going to _kill _Dudley.

Hadrian stormed through the hallways, intent on ignoring the specter walking beside him, and felt his rage build. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. It was impossible, but, yet, somehow, it was still happening. Couldn't he get a break? Students paused to stare at him as he passed, none of them familiar, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that. All he could focus on was the pain, in both his body and his hand, and the woman slowing to walk on his _other _side with a soft frown marring her features. The being on his left smirked, dark amusement radiating from the teenager, and Hadrian wanted nothing more than to strangle the spirit. He knew it was a useless thought, given how this person was _ethereal, _but the thought lifted his mood a tiny amount.

He could see a redhead sweeping down the corridor before them, concern lining the young man's face, and Hadrian felt his brow furrow. This man was familiar, and, as he slowed his pace, green eyes narrowing further, he bit out, "Who are you?"

"Jarl Eloise, I realize this must be difficult-" Hadrian felt his hand flex in reflex to his building anger, and his magic snapped at the man's form as Hadrian cut in, "I don't _care _how difficult _any _of this! Just give me your damn name."

"My Jarl," the woman began, but the man in front of him bowed his head, speaking over her. "Forgive me, Jarl Eloise. I am Albus Dumbledore, Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Albus...Dumbledore?" Hadrian echoed, eyes widening. Next to him, the woman murmured, "Is he familiar, my Jarl?"

He hesitated, and the specter, having circled to stand next to the Deputy Headmaster, offered a shark grin as Hadrian swallowed and replied, "I...yes. Yes, he is. But how...how is this..."

He felt her hand settled on his shoulder as another man came upon them, two medics behind him. He turned, gaze on the woman in front of him, as the woman said, "We did not expect this to happen so suddenly. We did not have time to prepare as well as we would have liked, my Jarl."

Prepared? Hadrian frowned, and shifted his gaze to the redheaded man across from him. His Headmaster, but not his Headmaster. His temple throbbed, and, as the others closed in, and a group of students containing one Tom Riddle mixed to the building crowd surround them, Hadrian felt his exhaustion weigh heavily on his shoulders. Riddle's face bore traces of blood, and, while that made him feel slightly better, he could see the dark gleam in the older boy's gaze.

He nearly came out of his skin when the specter murmured into his ear, "Demand a place to recollect yourself, _hero_. And be quick about it."

Hadrian did just that, and Dumbledore, and whoever those other adults were, jumped to action. He let the woman guide him forward, away from the inquisitive eyes of Riddle and his classmates, and into the soft, cool embrace of the Infirmary. The doors closed behind him, blocking them from the curious gaze of the school, and Hadrian made his way across the room, and dropped onto a bed. He ignored the angered growls of the ghost only _he _could see, much to his complete shock, and turned his gaze on the people before him.

There was a sense of unease lingering in the room.

"You could tell Erma and the others they can sit, little wizard." Hadrian's gaze shifted towards the spirit, and, after a moment, finally said, "Everyone, please, just...sit down."

They sat. Quickly.

_What am I? A King? _The sarcasm sounded weak even in his own mind. He kept his gaze on the spirit, wondering why it was there, aside from the likely possibility he had seemingly stolen this guy's body, the how and why of it still leaving him reeling for some form of balance, and finally closed his eyes. Erma. He was sure that was the older woman, who was almost motherly towards him, and, after a moment to recollect himself, said, "Explain the situation, Erma."

'Please,' almost slipped past his lips, but a dark glare from the ghost stopped him in his tracks. He heard the woman shifting, and the feeling something was off with the room, perhaps the heaviness that had settled, lingered even as she began, "Vanta Gorge was attacked, my Jarl. It would seem the Dark Lord of the wizarding community was aware of the ritual we were in the middle of finishing..."

He felt Dumbledore staring at him, twinkling blue eyes not twinkling in the least. He returned the stare as he replied, "It would seem...some of the people in this room are not fully aware of who...of who I am..."

It was true. Somewhat. The young, female medic was frowning, her hands wringing together, and her confusion was so potent Hadrian swore he could _taste _it. A few looked at the woman, but he felt Erma's gaze boring into his face even as a man, the other doctor, sighed. "Ah, yes, the uneducated minds are not as aware of the full extend of this world. Milly, this is Jarl Eloise of Vanta Gorge."

"Jool, Erma just _explained _that part." He heard the other man, the current Headmaster he would assume, mutter. The doctor merely scoffed, but plowed on regardless, but not without a dark glare at Milly, "Vanta Gorge is a domain outside of the wizarding community, and Eloise, the boy _sitting on the bed_, has ascended to status of Shaman, the spiritual leader, and Jarl, the Clan Leader, after his parents were murdered several months ago. Happy?"

Hadrian resisted looking at the black whirlpool of raw hatred wrapping around him. Eloise, the Shaman King? No, he didn't think was happy in the least about that. Dumbledore was now openly glaring at Jool as Hadrian finally interrupted, "I was attacked by a wizard, before we left. Called me a savage. He was wearing..."

He recalled the man, and those robes, as he related the little skirmish, minus Eloise and his cutting remark before vanishing, to the adults. He kept his gaze on Dumbledore knowing if anyone might know who those people were, it would be his...professor? Yes, professor. He ran a hand through his hair, and tugged a thick, long bunch of it. Huh. Like this, he probably looked a bit like Sirius. His gaze returned to the others as he asked, "So why are we here?"

"There isn't anywhere safer than this school, my Jarl." Erma replied, and Hadrian frowned. That was not necessarily true. He had four years of experience with this school, and _something _always managed to slip underneath the wards. As he let the nurse tend to his injuries, his eyes closing, he finally said, "And, let me guess, I am going to attend this school despite the fact there's a mad wizard out there who, much to my shock,"

He paused, lips quirking into a smile. No. He wasn't surprised. Not at all. "...wants me dead. A man who went out of his way to invade Vanta Gorge, level the place, and _attempted _to kill me before we were all whisked away here. Did I miss anything?"

In the corner of the room, he saw Eloise bury his face in one palm, looking defeated, as the others continued to stare at him.

That's what he thought. As he flopped backwards onto the bed, eyes closing, Hadrian groaned. He definitely was going to hunt down Death, and kick his ass.

0  
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000

Hogwarts was not exactly what he had expected.

Granted, he was in the past, despite some rather confusing differences, but he'd go with it. It would be stupid to try to swim up a rushing river, and even more so to try and get any foothold when the water was over his head. So he'd...adapt. He had to do that when he went from muggle boy with a crazy uncle, an infuriating cousin, and a distant aunt to the Boy-Who-Live of the wizarding world. He could do it again. He _had _to, but that was beside the point.

In the other room, Dumbledore, the current Headmaster, two medics, and a handful of wildlings were discussing what to do about a Dark Lord out for blood. Which wasn't all that surprising. One way or another, he always found a Dark _something _out for his blood. Possessed teachers. A giant snake with a gaze that could kill. Dementors, which he still was silently seething about. Mermaids, giant spiders, and fire-breathing dragons. Voldemort. So what was _one more Dark Lord _when compared to everything _else _on his 'Hates Me' list?

"You are _not _cutting my hair." Ah. Eloise, the bane of his existence. He turned to the ghost, and grinned. "Why ever not, _my lord?"_

The teen scowled, grey eyes narrowed in anger. "Look, _hero, _I'm stuck with you for Mordred knows how long. And put _down _those scissors!"

"I refuse to have hair to my arse," He caught and held the ghost's gaze as he lowered his voice, "so you better pick a short length you're okay with, or I'm chopping _all of it _off. You have fifteen seconds."

Eloise looked a bit like a girl. He would have thought him to be a girl if the ghost wasn't running around shirtless with some kind of tight band around his upper arm. Maybe it was something to show his status? The spirit grit his jaw, but, after several long minutes, he finally hissed, "Fine! My chin is as _short _as I will permit you to cut it. I'd prefer longer, but I highly doubt you'd _allow _that, _hero."_

Hadrian, with a smirk, cut the hair. An inch below the chin, just to hear the ghost start muttering in his own tongue, and turned to Eloise afterward only to find the spitfire gone. He blinked, and, turning back to the bowl of water, splashed his face before turning to pulled on the white shirt Milly had given him. School uniform, free of cost. He curled his toes into the stones under his feet, happy his head didn't feel like it weighed thirty pounds, and quietly excused himself from the bathroom. The others paused, and Erma's jaw dropped.

"E-E-Eloise?" Hadrian shifted, and, after a long moment, finally said, "If I'm going to be _here,_ I might as well try to blend in as much as possible."

He kept still as she fingered the ends of his hair, a sorrowful look in her eyes. She dropped her hands to her sides, and, after opening her mouth a handful of times, finally said, "Yes, you are right. Long hair like you had would have made you stand out more. Mordred, I cannot believe...your hair, I am going to miss it."

_I'm not. _

Hadrian merely hummed in agreement, if only to appease the visibly distraught woman, and carefully brought up the next subject to the Headmaster, "Also, given that I am...wanted, would it not be best if I go by a different name in my time here?"

Several people blinked. Hadrian merely hated the thought of going by the spirit's name, and, as he eyed the people around him, he realized they hadn't even thought of changing his name. He kept quiet for a long moment, silent as they quietly debated among themselves, and finally cut in when it seemed they were not about to agree on anything. "Hadrian. I can go by Hadrian...Grey."

The grey dementor leapt to mind. Yes. A good reminder for him, having _that _as a last name.

While he wasn't the brightest of people, no one could discredit him. Confusion aside, he knew he had to act. Otherwise...

Otherwise, he knew he'd drown in this place. He didn't know anyone, and he'd be _damned _before he called it quits.

He survived ten years in a magic-hating home. He knew he could survive here.


End file.
